


The Angel of Narrative Cliche

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s12e01 Keep Calm and Carry On, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: There are some things that just offend Gabriel's sense of good writing. Torturing Sam once, three times, maybe fifty or so, fine, but by now? That's just old hat. Also, Gabriel had been far more creative than this. Just for the record.





	

It was cold, this abandoned place they’d chosen. Cold, and still: the air never moved. It had been untouched for too long.

Under those circumstances, any sign of life had too much power on the mind. It took a grip, and fascinated. Toni knew better than to watch the monitor too long; and yet she did.

Sam Winchester sat on the steps, and stared at nothing with tired eyes.

There was no reason for her to keep watching, hour after hour.

“You know,” purred somebody behind her in the dark, “there’s such a thing as internal narrative cliche.”

Toni didn’t reach for a weapon. The air hadn’t moved; and therefore anything that could speak to her was either in her head or not subject to the usual rules of physics. She had no weapons for either of those categories of monster within her reach; so she was much better off thinking her way out of this.

“Do feel free to elaborate,” she said crisply. “I’m sure you will anyway.”

“Trickster,” it said helpfully, “if you’re curious. And you don’t have the right stake. Or the blood of someone I’ve tricked before. Oh wait, you do, but it’s currently smeared all over that floor in there, and I don’t think you’re feeling ready to waltz back in there, are you?”

She swallowed.

The thing in the dark behind her shifted. From the corner of her eye, she seemed to catch a glimpse of gold.

“Here’s the thing,” it said. “Call me an angel of narrative contingency. There’s only so often you can torture any one character horribly within the space of a single story—to whit, _his_ —before it just turns into gratuitous pain porn, y’know? And not all of us are into that shit. So I turn up when things are just badly written. Because _somebody_ up there, naming no names, needs an editor.”

“Is that so,” said Toni carefully. On the monitor, Sam’s body had slumped against the stair rail. His eyes were still open and fierce, but there was hopelessness and exhaustion written in his muscles.

“Okay, so mostly I doodle dicks in the margins,” said the thing behind her, “but really, honey. ‘Tortured by Lucifer himself’, and that’s just one of the highlights in the reel. Didn’t occur to you that _that_ might be mental torture as well as physical? that this kid has spent literal centuries standing up to that? And that’s not even mentioning what he put up with at the hand of yours truly, which was, to blow my own trumpet, a hell of a lot more creative. And I got in earlier than you. Comes a time when the audience gets tired of watching him grimace and make the puppy-dog eyes, y’know? Though kudos for the ice-bucket show, he always looks good drenched.”

“Whether you’re here to help him or hurt him,” said Toni, “I think we’re on the same side. You have an interest in keeping this world spinning on its—”

“Nope.” Two warm hands landed on her shoulders; and she resolutely didn’t jump, as breath tickled her ear. “Me, I don’t care about the world, or people. I just turn up when the plot gets annoying. Guess I could keep you around for the novelty value. Just don’t give in to that tired old love-interest bullshit, yeah? Trust me, not a good idea. Personally, I’m rooting for the Irish girl.”

Then the room was empty.

Toni closed her eyes for a moment, and stood up.

She looked around for the weapons right to hand, then for the ones most useful, then for her mobile phone. It was only when her gaze swung back to the monitor that she realised Sam was no longer alone in the basement.

It was all blues and greys down there; and then there was this one man, muted gold and red, as if he were lit by a different light.

Sam’s lips moved, and he seemed to be having trouble focussing; and Toni reached forward, fumbling as she switched on the sound.

“... took your time,” Sam rasped.

The man, whose face Toni couldn’t see, spread his hands and spoke as if with a smirk. “You didn’t call.”

“And why would I,” grumbled Sam. “Not like you ever listen. Turn up when it suits you.”

“I listen,” said the Trickster, in tones of wounded innocence. “I listen for the sound of _blatant overuse of lazy writing_.”

“Yeah? What’s it sound like?” Sam’s voice was all weary familiarity.

“Chittering,” decided the Trickster, “and blue.”

“Couldn’t turn up _before_ the torture?”

“Gotta give the audience their gratuitous wet-shirt porn.”

“Yeah, I’m freezing too, thanks for asking.”

“At least your foot’s warm.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Sam’s head sagged sideways against the stair rail, as if the last of his strength had gone; and the golden figure snickered, and stepped forward on noiseless bare feet to sink on splayed knees in front of Sam. His thighs bracketed Sam’s abused feet on the cold filthy concrete, and bright hands settled on the knees of bloodied jeans.

“Did a good job of overturning that whole damsel in distress thing yourself,” he murmured, almost tender under the taunt, “but hey, it never works when it’s an actual woman keeping you locked up. Badass foreign woman trumps plucky hero any day. Cavalry’s on the way, though.”

A silvery glow spread under his hands, travelling down Sam’s calves to cluster at his feet, up to the bullet wound in his thigh, up further to sink into the depths of his chest and core; and he stretched, and gasped, and the tight agony in his body quivered and worked its way into nothing.

The Trickster lifted up on his knees—raised a hand—laid it on Sam’s neck.

Sam opened his eyes, and sighed.

“Cavalry,” murmured Sam numbly, holding the strange golden gaze. “That’d be, what, Cas? One injured angel? Going to give him a hand too, or just going with fixing the part of the story that doesn’t fit your sense of artistry?”

Toni still couldn’t see the creature’s face behind the swing of hair and the scruff of beard—not quite—but she did catch a flash of teeth as it grinned.

“Cas, and two others. All the family you’ve got, kiddo.”

Sam’s gaze sharpened and narrowed.

“Fine. You get one spoiler: Dean’s just fine. The other one? You gotta read through to find it.”

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and turned his face into the touch. The hand lingered for a moment, then slipped down his throat to ghost over chest and ribs. It was gentler than Toni would have expected from something with manners so brash: handling Sam’s body as if it were something precious and deserving of worship, not the cruel violations of a few hours back.

“Thank you,” said Sam.

“Not my doing.”

“You could have turned up _before_. I mean, your dad and all. Could have used you.”

“Yeah.”

“He thinks you’re dead.”

“He’s a liar.”

“Huh.” Sam’s mouth curled at the edge. “You’re all kinda messed up, y’know that?”

“Told you.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“‘Cos I’m adorable and you’ve got no other choice.”

“I’ve got every choice,” said Sam, fond and resigned, “you know that. And one day I’ll get you to do more than random deus-ex-machina plot expediency.”

“Now you’re talking my language,” said the creature, and pushed forward to open its mouth against his.

Toni blinked, and sank down into her chair, as Sam Winchester curled his hand with comfortable tiredness into the shimmering coppery locks of a pagan god, and returned the kiss, longing and easy and deep.

When at last he pulled back for air, Sam leaned his forehead against that of the Trickster, and breathed, soft and trusting.

The Trickster hummed softly, and pressed its lips to his nose, then to his forehead, then to his cheek. They were both smiling.

“Stay the night?” Sam murmured, almost too low for her to hear.

The god yawned, and glanced around the basement. Then he looked straight at the camera. For the first time she had a clear view of his face, solemn and laughing; and he winked.

“Guess it can’t screw up any important plot points,” he said, and snapped his fingers. A very luxurious bed appeared in the middle of the floor, beside an enormous steaming copper bathtub and a table set for one.

Sam moaned his appreciation; and Toni leaned forward, cheeks almost pink, and snapped off the sound.

Either the Winchesters were _very_ bad at their job, or their job was rather more complex than she had anticipated.

**Author's Note:**

> ['Tis over here on tumblr if you want to reblog.](http://whitmerule.tumblr.com/post/151832607605/the-angel-of-narrative-cliche-s12e01-episode)


End file.
